


Immune to Destructive Devices

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is totally an adorable angry kitten at times, Crowley POV, Crowley is an awkward nerd with no impulse control, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Gabriel (Mentioned) - Freeform, Hastur (mentioned), Hell Fire is dangerous to angels, Holy Water is dangerous to demons, I haven't read the book in forever so forgive me lol, I'm all about my boi Crowley being me, Ligur (mentioned), Lots of footnotes!, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Who does stupid shit all the time because "well why not?" logic, fluffy angst?, mild AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:32:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Crowley looked at his desk, at the stain on the ground beside his throne from the water where it'd seeped into the stone. He couldn't wish away the stain, not with holy water. And not as a demon.But…washe still a demon?





	Immune to Destructive Devices

**Author's Note:**

> I had a random idea and just rolled with it. Then it grew. Someone help me.

Crowley hadn’t mentioned it to Aziraphale after everything had been sorted and settled down. He hadn’t really thought about it until he saw the flask on his desk later that evening after spending hours at the Ritz with his angel. The spray bottle was just a sad nozzle on the ground beside his throne and Crowley kicked it, not bothering to bend down and pick it up. Too much effort when kicking it got it out of his way nicely.

He’d offered Aziraphale his place last night but neither of them had ventured into his little office-slash-throne room[*]. They’d remained in the lounge area, supping on perfectly acceptable wine—though it hadn’t been all that great a vintage it had done the job of getting them both drunk—until daylight arrived and Crowley had gone to the bookshop in Aziraphale’s skin for their ruse.

The hell fire had been surprisingly pleasant for him up in the sharp, white lines of heaven—pretentiousness in physical form was either Gabriel or the disgustingly minimalistic design of heaven, Crowley hadn’t quite decided. But he’d been glad to get out of there[†]. Even if they had believed him to be Aziraphale and had treated him like they would his angel, Crowley had wanted to both get away from the artificial coldness of heaven and terrify these angels for speaking to Aziraphale in such a way.

He didn’t mention it to Aziraphale though. Crowley knew the angel wouldn’t really approve of his almost discorporating— _killing_ , let’s be real here, it would have been killing—his superiors just because they were mean.

Crowley _also_ knew that Aziraphale would be secretly pleased and amused by it all. Especially since he’d obviously done something down in hell that terrified Beelzebub into complying with their demands. Angels were easy enough to convince; an angel able to withstand hell fire? They’d back away and wouldn’t come anywhere near said angel for quite a while. But demons were a little different. Most of the time.

He’d also been impressed to learn that Aziraphale knew him well enough to impersonate him and was _convincing_. Though, the way he’d sat on the bench in Berkeley Square… Eh, Crowley let that slip up go. They’d been home and dry at that point—if that was how the saying went, what did Crowley care, the words got the point across well enough.

Crowley almost wished he’d been able to see Hastur’s face when Aziraphale had been in the bath of holy water and not burned. He smirked. Maybe he’d ask his angel to show him the memory of it—he’d offer Gabriel’s expression of supreme confusion in heaven as a trade.

Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to resist. Not—Crowley knew—that he’d particularly want to at this point in their existence.

But back to the matter of the flask on his desk. A nasty matter for sure.

The flask was empty. He’d used almost all of it in the bucket that had fallen on Ligur and erased him from existence—quite painfully by the sound of it, too. But some of it had gone into the spray bottle as a second line of defence. Or offence, depending.

Crowley looked at his desk, at the stain on the ground beside his throne from the water where it’d seeped into the stone. He couldn’t wish away the stain, not with holy water. And not as a demon.

But… _was_ he still a demon?

Once he’d been an angel and then he’d fallen. His wings had turned from white to black. The pain of his landing in hell was one that Crowley would never forget, like a phantom limb that forever ached even when it had long ceased to exist. The pain was eternal, as was his damnation.

The problem was, although Hastur had called him on his threat and exploded the bottle in his hands, Crowley hadn’t _actually_ been bluffing. It _had_ been filled with holy water. Not much, pretty much diluted to be perfectly honest, but even one drop of diluted holy water could harm a demon in a permanent way[‡].

Except… the diluted water hadn’t done a thing to Crowley. He hadn’t even received a little burn like the type you get whenever you touch a hot pan on the stove for a split second, yank your hand away and curse like a—well—a demon around your finger because you’ve stuck it in your mouth to sooth the burn.

All demons were harmed by holy water, no exceptions. Even Satan himself could be harmed by it. Not necessarily destroyed, but definitely severely injured.

And here Crowley was, with not even a scratch on him.

Thinking about it, that fact alone down in hell was probably sufficient enough to terrify Beelzebub into letting Aziraphale-as-Crowley go. Especially if Satan had been watching the trial through their eyes.

Crowley wondered for a moment—a long moment considering he could stop time if he wished to—what the possibilities available to him were, as a demon-who-happened-to-be-immune-to-the-destructive-effects-of-holy-water. They were, considering the circumstances, much the same as the possibilities he’d had before he’d returned to his flat and seen that stain on his stone floor in his office-slash-throne room.

Aziraphale. Earth. Some freedom from the controlling natures of heaven and hell.

Crowley fell into his throne, swinging a leg up over one of the arms and hanging his head back over the other, an arm wrapped around the back of the throne to brace him. He smirked up at the ceiling.

“Is this part of your Ineffable Plan?” he wondered, giving the ceiling a thoughtful look. “Having a demon that can’t be made extinct? Why would you allow that to happen? To a fallen one? To me? Is saving the world really that big a deal that you’d make a demon basically invulnerable? Bit odd.”

Not that Crowley was complaining, not really. If—when hell came calling again, they’d be at a disadvantage. He could literally just toss water balloons filled with holy water at them. That’d be a right old laugh that would.

Crowley frowned. Hold on. If he was somehow immune to holy water but was still a demon—at least, he _still_ felt like a demon, his wings were still black he was sure of it, and his own fiery demonic abilities were still there—did that mean _Aziraphale_ was possibly immune to hell fire?

Maybe.

Not that Crowley would ever let the angel find out. He didn’t want to watch his angel get caught up in a torrent of hell fire, not knowing if it would kill him or not. No thanks. Do not pass go.

The most obvious way of telling if an angel was fallen was their wings—namely, none of them really had them anymore. Lucifer had his, obviously, and so did Crowley. He knew of maybe five or ten other demons who retained their wings but the rest were mostly… well, Crowley figured they hadn’t seen the point in them anymore and had changed them into more useful appendages for demons to possess.

Like tails.

Crowley missed his tail. But this human form was good enough. Even if he still wasn’t that big a fan of legs most of the time. Awful things to coordinate when drunk, or dizzy, or on a boat[§].

Aziraphale, like the weird angel he was, seemed fascinated by them. Of course, the angel had about as much coordination in his whole body as Crowley had in his left foot _when drunk_ but that didn’t stop Aziraphale from loving boats and their awful-for-leg-coordination-ways.

Speaking of Aziraphale and wings and not-quite-demon-slash-angel-anymore possibilities, Crowley angled his head to look down at the stain beside the throne. If he really was immune to holy water, putting his hand on the stain would do nothing to him. He might, possibly, be able to miracle it away too.

But if it turned out he wasn’t immune to holy water then his and would be burned by celestial holiness and he’d probably end up losing it or having it horribly scar for the rest of eternity.

Decisions, decisions.

“Oh, fuck it.”

He put his hand on the stain, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the sizzling and the burning agony.

If this test prevented him from having to figure out a way to determine if Aziraphale _was_ in the same boat as him then, well, Crowley wasn’t a particularly good demon because he was much, _much_ too nice and for his angel he was far too good also. He was more than willing to suffer burning agony so that Aziraphale with his soft kindness and constant politeness and lack of appreciation by heaven for being kind and good and loving wouldn’t have to be harmed by any hell fire unnecessarily.

Crowley felt his hand and the stone beneath it. He felt the dampness of the stone from the holy water that had seeped into it but he felt no burning agony, no nerve destroying fire obliterating skin and muscle and ligament and bone of his body.

He just felt like he’d put his hand on a bit of damp ground.

He opened his eyes and peeked down at his hand, visually confirming that—yep, hand still there, in one piece, all fingers accounted for, thumb too. Well then. That answered that then, didn’t it?

Crowley scrambled upright, fumbling for his phone that he’d left in the lounge with his free hand as he clung to the throne tightly. He hit the dial pad and watched as his phone automatically rang Aziraphale.

Speed-dial had been a wonderful invention. Crowley might have claimed it as his idea or Aziraphale had, he couldn’t quite recall, but that didn’t make it any less of a brilliant idea by the humans.

“Fell Bookshop, how may I—” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet with a hint of frustration at being called so late at night. Crowley felt no sympathy for the angel, not when he refused to get a bloody mobile phone—oh to—to—to existence with it! He was going to buy him one tomorrow and refuse to let Aziraphale refuse it.

“I’m immune to holy water.”

What was the point in beating about the bush when the bush had been torched? Crowley wasn’t in the mood to play out their usual conversations on the phone. Not with this.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“I am _immune_ to holy water,” Crowley repeated, emphasising the ‘immune’ part because as smart as Aziraphale was, sometimes he was very, very stupid. “It doesn’t even make my skin blister.”

Aziraphale was quiet on the line and Crowley just knew he was making that face he did when he was deeply confused by something. It was an adorable expression and Crowley would never admit that fact to anyone or anything—unless he was asked very nicely by Aziraphale. Maybe.

“You’d best come over,” the angel says after a long, long pause, voice far graver than even Aziraphale usually managed. Obviously the angel was as disturbed by this development as Crowley himself.

Good. It wasn’t nice being disturbed by something alone. Always much easier to tolerate with company.

“Don’t go sticking your hand in any flames while I’m on my way angel, you hear?” Crowley half ordered, half asked, giving his best stern look at the wall he was staring at in lieu of Aziraphale’s face.

“Of course not!” Aziraphale sounded so offended that Crowley had to crack a smile—a smirk, demons don’t smile, they do smirk though… As a potentially not-demon anymore, maybe Crowley could smile? He’d have to brood on it at a later date. “Just hurry up and get over here.”

Crowley quirked a brow. Hurry up, eh? Well, if the angel insisted.

For the first time in a long time, Crowley unfurled his wings and used them to fly across London to the bookshop. It wasn’t the first time he’d ever done it, but for the last hundred years at least, Crowley had relied on more human forms of transportation—as had Aziraphale. It was easier to go under the radar of both heaven and hell that way.

But now—well, it didn’t matter now because heaven and hell had no idea what to do with them and wouldn’t for a long, long time yet. So Crowley flew.

And landed in front of Aziraphale in the shop beside the old phone the angel refused to part with.

“Crow—oh lord! Don’t _do that_ Crowley!” The angel flailed, almost dropping the telephone receiver from the surprise of Crowley’s sudden appearance before him.

Crowley found the sight of a surprised, somewhat flustered Aziraphale to be quite enjoyable.

“You said to hurry up,” he pointed out, ending the call and slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. Crowley gave the angel an expectant look. “So. Holy water. Immune. Me. How about you?”

Aziraphale frowned, replacing the receiver on the hook. “I’m not entirely sure, if I’m honest,” he said, moving across the bookshop to sit in the chair at his writing desk. Crowley followed behind him and dropped into the sofa which Aziraphale had always refused to admit was for the demon—ex-demon—for him.

Crowley had found the sofa considerably more comfortable than he’d ever admit, but the fact that he always enjoyed sprawling across it was indication enough of his appreciation to the angel.

“I haven’t checked since I don’t have any hell fire on hand,” Aziraphale finished, giving Crowley that Look he did.

Crowley knew that look. It was the one the angel wore when he wanted to lecture him about the dangers of holy water and reckless decisions and suicide pills.

“How did you figure out you were immune to holy water?” Aziraphale asked instead and Crowley cocked his head.

“Mmmm, think I had some inkling of an idea after I melted Ligur and threatened Hastur with a spray bottle,” he confessed. “But I only knew for certain when I decided it was a great idea to stick my hand on holy water-saturated stone.”

Crowley shrugged. “Surprised myself when I didn’t start to sizzle.”

A strange silence fell then and Crowley shifted on the sofa, looking at Aziraphale. Aziraphale, for his part in the silence, was turned at the waist in his desk chair, staring at Crowley with an expression that flitted wildly between emotions. Emotions that were easily identifiable on the angel’s face as, in order: surprise, horror, fear, surprise again, some more fear, anger, and, finally, thunderous anger.

Thunderous anger, unlike regular anger, was the type that often made thunderstorms seem mild and gentle in comparison. Before rain had been invented, and storms along with it, thunderous anger was more often described as godly rage.

Crowley felt like Aziraphale was leaning more toward the old term rather than the newer one.

That…was definitely not a good thing considering.

He wondered if he could pop out of existence in the immediate vicinity and survive that way. Aziraphale would follow him though—he hadn’t ever followed Crowley before but, well, things had changed hadn’t they? Expecting the angel to do what he’d done before was just _asking_ for trouble.

Crowley didn’t actually _like_ trouble unless he was the one making it[**].

“You put your hand in holy water.”

Oh, that was a surprisingly calm voice.

“Not _in_ holy water, on holy watered ground,” Crowley corrected, squinting behind his glasses in a way that was completely wasted on the angel since Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. “Bit different.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face obviously disagreed.

“Of all the—the—foolish, reckless, idiotic things to do Crowley! YOU PURPOSELY RISKED YOUR LIFE TO TEST A THEORY!”

Ah. _There_ was the wrath.

Oh dear.

“Well, I had to make sure didn’t I?” Crowley didn’t cringe—he was a demon, demons don’t _cringe_ —but he did lean back a little. Only a little. “Wouldn’t do to get caught unawares and find out in the middle of a fight, would it?”

The logic of Crowley’s actions made perfect sense to him. Unfortunately, they didn’t make the same sense to Aziraphale.

“That doesn’t mean you do something so _reckless_ without me there to make certain you’re all right, Crowley!” Aziraphale stalked right up to Crowley, pointing an angry finger at him—actually, he jabbed Crowley in the chest, at that point of the sternum where you had to move back a little from the pressure because it was just on the left side of painful. Not that Crowley really registered pain, demon and all[††], but the body had its pressure points and the jabbed spot was definitely one of them. “What if you were affected by the holy water—diluted as it was—and the only way I’d know would be the sensation of your burning out of existence like that demon in sixteen-oh-nine?”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale.

The angel had felt Marmur being made extinct by his own stupidity? Really? That—had Aziraphale felt Ligur go up in bright light inside an orange bucket too? Had he panicked, assuming it was Crowley and then he’d been discorporated, unable to actually know for sure because he’d ended back up in heaven? The idea was, well, it was absurd and crazy and implied that angels could sense whenever a demon died in the very-permanent-way[‡‡].

Crowley had sensed the same but, well, he was a demon, it was to be _expected_ of him to know when one of his fellow demons went and got themselves killed.

“You know,” Crowley said slowly, tilting his head to the side. “You never actually mentioned how you knew I was in Hull that year—” he narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses “—didn’t mention why you showed up in Hull either when you had a miracle in Arabia to perform.”

Aziraphale spluttered. “That—that is not the point, Crowley!” He exclaimed, shaking the jabby finger at the demon. “Stop trying to distract me!”

“You’re the one who brought up Marmur!” Crowley shot back. “If anyone is trying to distract from the point it’s you!”

Crowley slouched a little more comfortably on the sofa, a smirk working its way on his face. Aziraphale stared at him, doing that little spluttery thing he did when Crowley had left him lost for words in an argument. It was quite endearing.

Much more endearing than the thunderous anger of twenty seconds ago, too.

Crowley was much more likely to survive with his ego intact when Aziraphale was spluttering and struggling for words than when he was all-but shivering in his body and his wings were threatening to unfurl[§§]. In anger, that is, not anything else.

Although…

“What if something had happened to you Crowley? I wouldn’t have known where you were, I wouldn’t have known if you were—” Aziraphale’s voice broke as the angel stood up suddenly, leaving Crowley behind on the sofa.

Crowley immediately followed.

“I had to test it, Aziraphale,” Crowley pointed out, quieter. He had a realisation, staring that the angel as Aziraphale stood in the middle of his shop, beneath the compass skylight, that Crowley had truly upset him. The kind of upset that humans caused each other with thoughtless actions—actions that risked their safety. Well, Crowley really had to test his theory.

Better him than Aziraphale.

“Why? Why did you have to test it?” Aziraphale demanded, turning around sharply to face Crowley. The angel had to look up to stare at him, but they’d known each other for six thousand years and the action was automatic—just as Crowley’s slight slouch that allowed his head to dip a fraction. “I’ll admit, holy water no longer harming you is a relief, especially considering heaven’s penchant for the stuff, but you didn’t have to test it _alone_.”

Crowley swallowed awkwardly. He had. He really, really had.

“I’m running on the logic that if I’m immune to holy water then you’re immune to hell fire,” Crowley explained, shifting on the spot. “I figured it was safer for me to test with holy water if you weren’t around to—I don’t know—try and stop me.”

“Of course I’d have stopped you!”

Crowley gave the angel as unimpressed an expression as possible with his sunglasses still on. It was unimpressed enough that Aziraphale pulled that sad face he always did when he was upset and didn’t want to admit Crowley had a point.

“I’d have at least prepared for the worst,” the angel muttered, gaze flitting around the bookshop.

“I did.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, confused. “How was testing your immunity _alone_ and without _informing_ _me_ _first_ preparing for the worst?”

Crowley shrugged. He didn’t want to say it. Not really. Well, he did, because it’d be nice to say it. But he also really didn’t want to say it because it’d change things.

Things had already changed though, hadn’t they? He wasn’t exactly your traditional demon anymore. Admitting his feelings… it’d just be another thing to deal with.

_Fuck it._

“I didn’t want you watching me die if it didn’t work,” he confessed, ducking his head and scratching the back of his head. “It was bad enough me finding your shop on fire—I don’t—well, I don’t think you’d have enjoyed witnessing my demise if I was wrong.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Oh.”

Oh. Yeah. _Oh_.

“Anyway! It turned out all right! Hand still in one piece, no sizzled flesh, no screaming oblivion. Just an impossible immunity to holy water when it ought to wipe me from existence!” Crowley turned away, heading back to the sofa. He dropped down on it and flicked a hand, summoning a nice vintage from… well… wherever he felt like summoning it from[***].  “Figures you’re immune to hell fire yourself now!”

Aziraphale slowly crossed the bookshop to the sofa, sitting down on it next to Crowley when the not-quite-traditional-demon shifted enough to allow the angel to perch on the edge.

“I’m not quite certain of that, we haven’t tested it after all.” Aziraphale summoned two glasses from wherever he kept them—Crowley knew there was a kitchen above the bookshop but, well, he hadn’t actually seen it since Aziraphale bought the place back in the 1800s, so for all he knew, it could have more books stored in it than the bookshop itself—and handed one to Crowley. “The only way to confirm a theory is through experimentation, after all.”

Crowley grimaced. He didn’t like that idea.

Well no, he liked the idea of testing things—he had great fun doing tests and experiments. There had been a time in the 1970s when he’d participated in a dozen psychological tests and completely screwed up the results for the sake of it. So yes, he liked tests and the like. He just didn’t particularly like the idea of his angel testing his own tolerance of an angel-extincting substance.

But the idea of Aziraphale testing his potential tolerance of hell fire… Well. Crowley would rather go toe-to-toe with the end of the world again thank you very much.

“You can—I presume—summon some for us to use, yes?” Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the rim of his wineglass.

Crowley squirmed inside, feeling like a trapped snake. He didn’t particularly like the feeling. Especially when it was usually Aziraphale that made him feel it in this particular capacity.

“I’m just a regular demon, angel,” Crowley swilled his wine, avoiding looking at Aziraphale who totally, completely, most definitely, didn’t believe him for a second.

“The serpent that tempted Eve is no regular demon, Crowley,” Aziraphale said _quite_ firmly. “There is a reason heaven had considered sending Michael to replace me, you know.”

“Because they’re idiots?”

Aziraphale lips quirked a little. “Yes well,” he said, “other than _that_ reason.”

Crowley snorted out a laugh. The angel seemed to have finally gotten past his defence of his heavenly brethren. It was nice to witness. Especially the flicker of genuine amusement in Aziraphale’s bright eyes. That—that was very nice to see.

“Tempting humanity was supposed to be Lucifer’s job you know,” Aziraphale said conversationally, shifting a little on the sofa and taking up more space, forcing Crowley to move to accommodate the angel. “He is, as I’m sure you’re fully aware, very good at tempting with his words. It’s quite an ability. To tempt Eve was supremely difficult, no matter what any of my fellow angels had to say on the matter. That Lucifer refused, instead rebelling, and that you were the one to do it… It speaks greatly to your ability.”

“So I’m good with words, that’s not the same as summoning hell fire all wily-nily angel!”

This was starting to feel a little bit—Crowley had to admit—well, a little bit like Aziraphale was complimenting him on aspects of his personality that, before today, the angel likely would never had thought complimentable. He wasn’t entirely sure he disliked that fact.

Of course, Aziraphale had complimented Crowley on his actions in the past, but those had almost always been ones Aziraphale could safely label ‘good’ and ‘right’. Performing a miracle that saves lives; preventing some senseless deaths from an idiotic lack of bathing based on absurd fear of hygiene; those sorts of thing. That the angel would compliment Crowley for ensuring the world’s first act of sin came to pass… it belied belief.

“Who are you and what have you done with my friend?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask, only half-joking. It was possible, just as it had been possible for them to switch appearances, that Aziraphale wasn’t really Aziraphale right now.

“What—honestly, Crowley! I offer you compliment and you instantly assume I’m not really me!” Aziraphale threw a hand up, giving Crowley a cross look. “I suppose nothing will convince you that I’m really me except—oh, I don’t know—showing holy water has no effect on me and then, perhaps, using hell fire too! That way, if I am immune from demonic hell fire, we’ll also rule out demonic chicanery!”

Crowley just blinked at Aziraphale.

“Honestly!” The angel exclaimed, using the hand he’d been throwing around during his miniature rant at Crowley to conjure a small flask of holy water. The sensation of holiness emanated from the flask to such a degree that Crowley, still very much used to being vulnerable to the stuff, stiffened and leaned away from it.

Aziraphale wasted no time in upending the bottle into his wine which he then, quite uncouthly, downed in one long gulp.

“That was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it?” Crowley stared at the angel open-mouthed.

“No more than your own actions, I think.” Was Aziraphale’s sharp response.

Crowley hummed. That was a fair point. The angel certainly could be quite biting when he wished to be.  Just enough of a bastard worth knowing, indeed.

“Now, holy water still has no effect on me, divinity intact,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley an expectant look. “Time for the—the—well—the hell fire.”

“I’m not summoning hell fire, angel!”

Crowley shoved himself up from the sofa and paced around the room, wine in one hand that swung the glass wildly—somehow not spilling a single drop no matter how much physics said the liquid ought to be on the ground and not still in the glass. Aziraphale followed after him, standing in Crowley’s way and preventing the demon from pacing as much as he’d wanted to.

For being shorter than him, Aziraphale was astonishingly capable of causing Crowley no end of trouble with movement within a confined space. Or any space really. Crowley had come to the sad, sad conclusion about five hundred years ago that he had gone and well and truly screwed himself by befriending the angel and forming some attachment to him. No matter what, Crowley always ended up gravitating toward Aziraphale.

Even when he really didn’t want to.

Like now.

“Crowley, we need to test this to be certain.” Aziraphale sounded so much calmer than he had any right to in Crowley’s opinion. Discussing a substance that could—if their theory was wrong—destroy the angel in an extremely painful way.

Stepping into the hell fire up in heaven had been easy for Crowley. Even if he’d worn Aziraphale’s face and part of him had panicked at the idea of his angel—false as the guise had been—being anywhere near the demonic substance. It was like pretending to be your partner and facing down a gun that you knew had blanks in but it was _still_ a gun.

Fear of death didn’t disappear just because the threat was illusionary.

Somehow, apparently, Aziraphale didn’t understand that.

Or, perhaps he did.

Crowley stared down at the angel, tense and poised for some attack of any type. He was so wound up, so unhappy with this. He didn’t want to see Aziraphale burn.

Not after seeing the bookshop burn.

He—Crowley didn’t think he could handle that.

“I—I _can’t.”_

Crowley closed his eyes. He couldn’t stand to look at Aziraphale. Not when he felt like—like—like his heart was breaking. Even demons had hearts. They were what had been broken when the Almighty had cast them out. Betrayal hurt. Judgement hurt. The fall hurt most of all.

But this? Having to imagine Aziraphale standing in a ring of hell fire, burning? Oh, that was so, so much worse than the fall had ever been.

Love.

_Bloody buggering love._

Nimble fingers removed his sunglasses gently.

“Crowley look at me.”

A hand pressed against his cheek, cupping his face ever so gently. Featherlight.

Crowley opened his eyes.

“Trust me,” Aziraphale said with so much tenderness, so much affection, and Crowley caved.

“I hate you, angel,” he whispered, calling forth hell fire and letting it wrap around them both. “I hate you so bloody much.”

“The feeling is quite mutual,” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Oh, look—I’m not burning. How lovely.”

Crowley ignored the flames, ignored the bookshop, ignored it all. He kept the fire contained, controlled, even though he wanted to put it out with extreme prejudice. The look on Aziraphale’s face however, when the angel reached out and touched the flames with a curious hand… he kept them going a little longer.

“Curiosity killed the cat, as the humans put it,” Crowley pointed out, taking Aziraphale’s raised hand and pulling it back toward them, away from the flames. “Stop tempting fate, angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Perhaps,” the angel said slowly, “fate ought to be tempted for once, demon.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile at that. A small smile. But still a smile. The flames died away and there they were, stood together, in the middle of the bookshop, hands on each other in such intimate expressions of affection.

The demon-now-something-else and the angel-also-something-else-now smiled at each other as Crowley ducked his head and whispered, just moments before lips touched: “temptation achieved.”

 

* * *

 

[*] It wasn’t really either of those to be entirely honest, but depending on Crowley’s mood, he referred to the room as one or the other. Occasionally, both.

[†] In fact, he’d been so glad to get out of there he’d been happy to be on earth even before Aziraphale had shown back up from hell. Of course, he’d also been quietly counting the seconds and panicking thinking all manner of things about what could be happening to his angel down in hell. But that was to be expected of Crowley. He was the paranoid type: kept him alive.

[‡] Some idiot demon back in the 1600s had found that out the hard way when he’d gone up top and proceeded to try and tempt a father into misleading his entire congregation. Although religious leaders were capable of blessing water to be holy, this particular father had dropped the small flask of pre-blessed holy water into the puddle the demon had been standing in and, well, that had been that. No more demon.

[§] Crowley had a gentle dislike of boats—not a _hatred_ , otherwise he’d have probably sunk every boat he came across over the millennia.

[**] No one with any sense would like trouble if they weren’t the ones causing it in the first place. Though, to be fair, Crowley technically was causing this trouble, he just didn’t particularly care for it when he would be the victim of an angel’s wrath for—how would Aziraphale put it?—acting _recklessly with his continued existence_.

[††] Crowley would continue to refer to himself as a demon until he was at such a point where it was an entirely inaccurate term. Like how someone would refer to themselves by their nationality up to and long after the point when said nationality was no longer accurate owing to a couple of wars, some treaties, and a new name for the country of their origin. Stubbornness, some would call it. Crowley was just used to calling himself a demon—it was a habit, as ingrained in him as his penchant for sunglasses was.

[‡‡] It also implied _other_ things that Crowley didn’t want to really contemplate when faced with an irate angel who was far too appealing for his serpentine eyes hidden, fortunately, behind dark sunglasses.

[§§] That has, as far as Crowley was aware, happened just the once back in 334AD. Too much Roman wine and too many suggestively dressed humans had left the angel very much flustered and Crowley had had to drag him out of the room before those wings showed. It was only due to Crowley’s attention that the whole room hadn’t had to be made dead or something because of Aziraphale losing his cool and revealing proof of the divine to some humans.

[***] As it was, Crowley had three specific places he summoned wine from. One was, of course, his own wine cellar which contained some of the rarest vintages in the world—including Greek wine from before Christ had even been a glint in God’s infinite mind. The second was a well-known, highly-elite winery that produced some of the best wine in this century. The last… the last was Aziraphale’s collection of wines. This particular wine was from the latter.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments sustain me as always (they also save me from going mildly insane-r, more insane)


End file.
